


Hurt

by beng



Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Emerald Graves (Dragon Age), Gen, Loss Of Culture, Occupation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: His link to his culture is fading, breaking, dissolving like the memory of the Dales themselves. Can an Inquisitor even call himself Dalish?
Series: 30 Days of Martin Lavellan [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080431
Kudos: 1





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [30 Days OC challenge](https://luinquesse.tumblr.com/post/187518711282/30-days-oc-challenge) by luinquesse.  
> 

They watch, wide-eyed, the ancient paintings on the cliffs and have no idea what they’re looking at. Thanks to the Exalted March on the Dales, Martin doesn’t know either.

_*_

_“Elves were guilty of the greatest sin, of turning from the Maker. But we will show them mercy, for that is what Andraste teaches.”_

Martin stares at the inscription for a good while, the Inquisition banner gripped in his white-knuckled fist. Knowing city elves who earnestly believe in the Maker, and knowing others who have definitely not seen any mercy from self-proclaimed Andrastians, and actually knowing the Chant of Light, and knowing how kind some Chantry mothers can be do not make reading this any easier.

In the end he turns, shoving the banner at Blackwall. There is no way his sinful, Dalish hand is going to stake the Inquisition’s claim over these stupid crossroads with their stupid statue. He cannot.

*

Silver Falls, a matter of Dalish song and legend, and some shem captain has left a disappointed note cursing at the lack of treasure found behind the waterfall. Martin clenches his jaw until his teeth ache, trying to tune out the usual chatter of his company. The shem never listen to forest, to water, to wind. Their treasure is countable, and a lack of gold is a reason to kill. 

Martin knows there must be everite behind that waterfall, and he knows they all need gold to defeat Corypheus. How is he any better than the disappointed captain?

His link to his culture is fading, breaking, dissolving like the memory of the Dales themselves. Can an Inquisitor even call himself Dalish?

*

_“Even Maferath the Betrayer had a part to play. Who are we to say elves do not?”_

Sure. They make camp in the ruin of a shrine, an ancient stone wolf and Andruil’s messenger owls looking down on the hustle and bustle of the modern Inquisition’s agents and officers. 

They use Martin’s knowledge to find everite, to learn medical uses of rashvine nettle, to collect more than their usual pitiful amounts of embrium. They use Martin to sort out their wars. 

But yeah, sure, the elves are infidels and betrayers, and sinners, and killers. What other role could they possibly play other than that written by the shem?

*

Orlesian villas. Orlesian chateaus in the woods. Orlesian civil war tearing the region apart, with Orlesian refugees suffering from Orlesian deserters. 

The deeper they advance into the Emerald Graves (and make no mistake, these lands are fucking _graves_ — who in their right mind builds a summer chateau in a graveyard??), the more Martin entertains the old idea to just take his hart and disappear, leaving this whole shemlen circus behind.

But he cannot deny the beauty of the architecture. The colours of the bluish stone tiles and gold decor, mixing in harmony with the green and gold trees, with wild orange poppies, graceful fountains and airy galleries. He wants to take off his boots and feel the cool marble under his feet. For a wild moment, he can imagine himself living in a quiet forest mansion like Villa Maurel.

The beauty of the occupation is tearing him apart.

*

When they reach Vallasdahlen — the grove of ancient Life-trees — and the first tree they reach has been planted for Ralaferin — it is the final straw, and even Cassandra takes a step back from the haunted look in Martin’s eyes.

“Back.” His normally calm voice is breaking over the tightness in his chest. “This is enough. We have advanced enough, we have _taken_ , and _claimed_ , and _set outposts_ enough. The Inquisition is not setting foot into this grove, not for herbs, not for scouting, not for hunting, _is that clear?_ ”

They murmur and shrug. For them it’s just a bit of forest, and crawling with giants and wild brontos at that. For Martin, it’s the past slipping like sand through his fingers.

This one grove shall remain undisturbed and unclaimed, and so what if that is the tree Martin comes to that night, alone and barefoot, leaves his gifts of wild berries and falls into a fitful sleep curled against its mossy roots.


End file.
